


we are one

by assassins_heir (lykxxn)



Series: Assassin's Heir-verse [not canon!] [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Heir, Original Work
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoption, Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Immortals, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Kids, Orphans, Sexual Tension, Snow, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/assassins_heir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifty drabbles/one-shots surrounding Cristina and La Volpe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Venice

**Venice, Italy, November 2012**

 

“I hate Venice,” she says under her breath, her words muffled by the scarf wrapped around her neck and mouth.

La Volpe laughs. “You hate everything,” he replies in amusement.

“I’m cold,” she argues, “and the rose you bought me was wilting. Gilberto, this is the least romantic thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Oh, come on,” he says with a smirk, “you’re with me. And besides, I don’t know how to beat the Millennium, Cristina. You loved that.” He slips his hand in hers, and she has to admit that it’s nice to just  _be_ , even though it is cold and there’s a bitter wind in the air.

“I did,” she replies softly. “And I didn’t mind Rome, but let’s not go there again. What do you think of Venice, though?”

He mulls over it, his face becoming sharp and serious. “It’s changed a lot,” is all he says, and she pulls at the sleeve of his jacket.

“Gilberto,” she says.

“Alright,” says La Volpe. “There are a lot of memories. I mean, I know this is where we met; I know this is where we lived and breathed and married, but it’s also where Ezio fought Rodrigo ...” He stops talking and they walk silently. Cristina wants to say something, but she knows it’s best just to leave him be. They reach a little cafe advertising coffee and hot chocolate and La Volpe makes a pointed gesture towards the door. “Let’s go inside. It’ll be warmer in there.”

So they retreat into the warmth of the cafe and order two coffees, and a slice of cake to share. Cristina’s cheeks flush pink and she unravels her scarf.

“Everywhere I walk, I see the past,” La Volpe says in a hushed voice. “Like when we went to Rome―all I could think about was the _Brotherhood_ and the thieves’ guild and the places where I had been and fought. I couldn’t even think about us. It was awful.”

Cristina takes a sip of coffee, knowing that if he looks in her eyes now, he’ll mistake her empathy for pity. “We don’t have to go there again,” she tells him. “Hell, we don’t ever have to come back to _Italy_ again if it makes you feel better.”

“No, no,” says La Volpe quickly. “I love Italy. Just not Venice or Rome. Maybe Florence, just one last time, and then never again.”

“Because of _him_?” she asks quietly.

La Volpe nods. “I know it’s been so long―but the longer it’s been, the more it hurts.”

“I understand,” she says with a small smile. “Come, let’s drink up and we will go somewhere else.”

“Go somewhere else?” he asks.

“Not another night in this hateful city,” replies Cristina firmly. “Let’s go home, Gilberto. You are a better person―and a better husband―there.”


	2. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ischitella is a small town in the southeast of Italy.

**Ischitella, Italy, January 2004**

 

The night is cold, and La Volpe can feel her shivering against him despite the many attempts to keep her warm. “Why don’t we go inside?” he suggests. “You’re freezing.”

“I’ll be okay,” replies Cristina. “I like being out here with you. Look at the stars, Gilberto.”

“I have seen many stars,” he says nonchalantly.

She laughs. “Yes, but the world is changing. Nothing is the same. Stop and look, Gilberto. Time is passing and we don’t even notice it.”

La Volpe stops then, his hand stopping on her shoulder and his whole body tensing. “I’ve been here so long I didn’t even notice. I didn’t _realise_. What year are we in now? I’ve stopped counting.”

“Two-thousand-and-four, to the date,” she says. “It feels like just yesterday we had that little house in Venice.”

He smiles sadly. “Where did we go after that? Florence, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed it was. And then we were all over the place: Naples, Rome, Milan and Verona.”

“I liked Verona,” he says, as she adjusts herself against him. “It was pretty. I’d go back there again.”

“Me too,” she agrees. “Time goes so fast. It’s hard to believe all the things that have happened.”

And as she lays her head on his shoulder, he can’t help but think. So what if he will live for another million years? It will be a million years more that he’ll get to spend with her.


	3. Lightning

**Ischitella, Italy, March 2004**

 

He wakes in the dark, something shaking against his back. “Cristina?” he mumbles sleepily. “Cristina, _tesoro_?” Slowly, still trying to fight the sleepiness in his bones and the fuzziness in the back of his brain, he turns over.

 _Cazzo_. She’s curled up, covers pulled up so that her face is barely visible, crying silently. “Shh,” he whispers, reaching a hand out to pull the covers away from her mouth. She relaxes at his touch, readily moving the short distance across the mattress to his body. “Shh, _tesoro_ , it’s okay,” he whispers, and she grabs his shirt, burying her face into it as tears begin to soak his chest. “What’s wrong?”

Nature answers for him.

Thunder crackles deep in the sky; a low rumble echoes through the room, and he feels her tense beneath his hands. She freezes, her breath hitched in her throat. He can feel the panic bubbling up, just like a pan that’s about to bubble over. “Shh, _tesoro_ ,” he murmurs, rubbing her back gently; round and round in the same shape, “it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

They lie like that, and he’s aware that it’s getting onto five o’clock, but he doesn’t care. All that matters right now is Cristina.

 


	4. Rain

** Pisa, Italy, April 1994 **

 

The rain is heaving down outside the souvenir shop they’re huddled in. “We could make a run for it,” suggests Cristina lightly. Their hotel is only five minutes away; they can make it without being totally drenched.

La Volpe raises his eyebrows at her. It’s not an outlandish suggestion; they have all the time in the world, so why not do something stupid and get wet once in a while? But suddenly, as if he’s never felt like this before, he is at peace. He would rather stand here underneath a stripy canopy and watch nature take back the city.

“I have an umbrella,” she suggests, shrugging at him. There is a small smile upon his face.

“I have a better idea,” he murmured, “let’s just fucking go for it.” Cristina laughs loudly.

“If that’s what you want.”

He should have been prepared then, to be dragged out into the cold rain. But he isn’t. A chuckle ripples through his throat as he catches up to her, and suddenly, as if he has been hit with all the force of gravity, he stops. “ _Tesoro_ ,” he murmurs, a growl deep in his throat. She stops and turns to him. He stares at her hungrily.

This is the most cliché thing he’s ever done. But how could he _not_? God, she looks so beautiful. How can he resist?

Water pours through his hair and in his eyes. It’s almost like he cannot control himself anymore. He _needs_ her. It is rough—there is no such thing as playing nice when you’re in love with a fox—and he bites down on her lip, _hard_ , before coming back for more. He barely has time to breathe. All he knows is that he wants her; God, he fucking wants her.

Finally, she breaks away, pushing a wet clump of hair from her eyes. “I think we should take this somewhere else,” she says quietly, laughing coyly at him.

Oh, what a fucking ploy. She’s played this so many times. But she _knows_. She knows this is what makes him weak at the knees; this is what turns him on so much that she could give him an erection in the middle of a funeral.

“Just you wait,” he growls lowly. “You won’t be able to sit for a week, _tesoro_ , I promise you.”

The flush on her face is worth every word he says.


	5. Picture House

** London, England, January 1963 **

 

“What’re we getting tickets for, again?” she asks, clinging to his arm.

“ _Son of Flubber_ ,” he replies. “You know, the sequel to that film that was released a couple of years ago.”

“Oh, yeah!” she grins. “Great!” They approach the lanky teenage boy at the till, and he smiles nervously at Cristina. La Volpe’s hand tightens around her waist as he passes the tickets across the counter.

“Two to _Son of Flubber_ , please,” he says shortly. “And a box of sweet and salted popcorn. Would you like anything, _tesoro_?” It is a deliberate purr, one that clearly states: _she’s mine_. The teenager tears his eyes away from Cristina’s breasts for long enough to actually do his job.

Cristina pouts. “I thought we were sharing,” she says, but it is clear that it’s a jibe. “I’ll have a small bucket of sweet, and a Coke.”

The teenager hands them their buckets and Cristina’s drink, and La Volpe slides the money across the counter. They take their seats in the allocated screen. “He wouldn’t stop looking at you,” he hisses. _Cazzo._ He’s _seething_. “What are you, an object to show off? A _trophy_ wife?” He doesn’t bother to mask the disgust in his tone.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “Let’s just enjoy the film, _sì_?” And she reaches across his lap and grabs a handful of popcorn.

“Hey! You’ve got your own!”

She grins at him in reply. “Let it go, Gilberto. No use worrying about him. It’s not like we’ll see him again, anyway. We can go to a different picture house next time.”

He smiles at her. How did he get so goddamn _lucky_?


	6. Pregnancy

** Paris, France, February 1996 **

 

They’ve been trying for years. They still don’t know if it’s possible, but it’s worth a try.

La Volpe doesn’t want to hurt her; he knows the odds are near impossible. And even if they did conceive, it’d be highly unlikely that their child would be immortal like them. It would be incredibly difficult.

But she’s been so desperate about it for so long. It’s all she wants. So of course he’ll try—anything for the love of his life.

They visit doctors everywhere for tips to increase fertility. This time they are in Paris—the City of Love is a good a place as any—and there is a sliver of hope.

“I’m late,” she says quietly, early in the morning, when the hustle and bustle of the city has not picked up yet. She smiles at him—at the ceiling, too—her hair spread across the pillows.

“Let’s not rush into things,” he says cautiously, not wanting to get her hopes up. “Let’s go for breakfast, first. We have a full day ahead. And then we can go and get a test from a pharmacy. We can do it tonight.”

She shrugs and pushes everything to the back of her mind. Romantic strolls along the Seine are very appealing—as are croissants and tea in a pretty little café.

Dusk is fast approaching when they return. She can barely open the box; her hands are shaking in anticipation.

A child. It’s all she’s ever wanted. A real family.

_Negative._

It’s like being struck in the chest. She’s never felt so much disappointment in her life. She can do nothing but sit on the toilet seat and _sob_. She allowed herself to think, just for one moment, that it might be possible.

La Volpe holds her as she cries. No words can soothe the pain of knowing that for them, they might never be able to have a family. “I know,” he murmurs, “I know.” He says nothing more on the matter.

Time will heal such wounds, but for now, he has to be there.

He will always be there.


	7. Road Trip

**Tuscany, Italy, September 2013**

 

She is curled up in the front seat, a blanket draped over her. They’ve—and by _they_ , I clearly mean La Volpe—come up with the idea of going on a road trip.

The Tuscan hills pass by in a blur. She’s exhausted, and pretty glad La Volpe’s driving. He smiles at her. How does he still get butterflies when he looks at her? She’s just so beautiful; so _wonderful_. “Go to sleep, _tesoro_ ,” he murmurs, still trying to keep all his attention on the road.

“But that’s not fair,” she argues through a yawn. “I can’t let you drive on your own. What if we get lost, or you fall asleep—”

“Nothing will happen to me,” he assures her. “If I’m getting tired, I’ll wake you up. Don’t worry.”

So she rests her head against the window. He can count the very second she falls asleep. God, she looks so beautiful. He’s known her for over five hundred years, and yet she still manages to make him look like a lovesick fool. Maybe he is.

She still makes him stop in awe. She still gives him butterflies. She still makes him fall in love with her more and more each day.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he whispers, even though she can’t hear him. “ _Te amo_ , Cristina. God, I fucking love you more than anything on this God-given Earth. I’d kill for you. No, I’d _die_ for you.”

She won’t be any wiser when she wakes up, but he figures it’s for the best. He doesn’t need people thinking La Volpe has gone soft in his old age.


	8. Winter

**Naples, Italy, December 1988 **

 

Snow falls in thick rivulets; the glass in the window is freezing up on the other side. La Volpe sighs, wiping the glass with his sleeve. The wintry afternoon is cold as his old, hardened heart and, with a loud, shaking sigh, he shivers.

The storm has been a long time coming.

Why is he still here? Why has immortality snapped him up so savagely? Why has it allowed him to feel so much pain, so much suffering?

How he wishes for a moment’s peace.

How he wishes the world would give him just a moment, a moment to treasure all he holds dear, and give them just a moment, so that he can love them, care for them, make them feel all the love he holds in his hardened heart, his old, frosted heart.

Just a minute.

 


	9. Spring

**San Gimignano, Italy, March 1964**

_****_ ****

“See out there?” Cristina whispers. “They’re lambing. It’s spring, Gilberto.”

He can sense the sadness in her voice. Even a bunch of sheep can have babies, and she can’t.

“Yes,” he says mildly. “So it is.” He knows what’s coming next.

“What if we tried again—”

“No.”

His voice is firm, hard, holds no room for argument. He knows how little hope they have.

“What if we—”

“I said _no_ , Cristina! Goddamnit!” He is fighting his emotions; they have the upper hand, and he an arm tied around his back as he fumbles with his rapier.

“We could adopt,” she murmurs, but the fire has died now, damp and dark, not a spark left.

It won’t burn again for a long time.


	10. Summer

**Ischitella, Italy, June 2014**

****

There’s a boy in his living room, swinging his legs and sucking on an ice lolly.

“His name’s Jacopo,” says Cristina, “and he’s an immortal.”

“Where the fuck did you get him from?”

“I didn’t get him from anywhere! He’s our next-door-neighbour’s kid. His _mama_ ’s gone to the doctor’s.” She shrugs. “She’ll be back in an hour. I don’t see the problem.”

“Alright,” he replies.

Jacopo’s _mama_ never makes it there.

Gilberto wonders whether this is Irony or Fate who’s at fault this time.

The little boy is seven and has technically been orphaned since the Second World War.

So, the fox teaches his cub how to live, to survive, to be truly immortal. He teaches him to ride a bike, to pickpocket, to feed the ducks and the birds and to take care of the world. He teaches him letters and numbers and French and English and Spanish, teaches him to love and be loved, to ride in the back of the car with the windows down, to run around like a kid’s supposed to.

And, with a bitter sigh, Gilberto has to admit that Cristina was right all along.


	11. Autumn

** Ischitella, Italy, September 2014 **

****

Autumn brings truth.

They wake night after night, Jacopo’s screams piercing the air, louder and shriller than an air raid siren.

“The war,” is all Cristina says, and they nod at each other, trying to comfort the child.

“Fuck immortality,” growls Gilberto when the child refuses to sleep alone.

All the steps they have made forward seem to have been reversed. Jacopo won’t sleep without a light one night, or in his own bed the next. He won’t eat his vegetables one evening, he won’t eat at all the next.

“He’s just a child,” says Cristina. “He’s having a tantrum; that’s what kids do.”

He stops in the middle of playing in the garden, crying.

He is defined by fear, still wedged firmly into the past, an unexploded bomb buried beneath the earth.

And then they know they have to start moving again.


End file.
